He's got a point. Even though I know it's a terrible idea to accept an article of clothing from him, I take it and pull it on.
The sleeves go about a foot past my fingertips, but I do my best to roll them up and make it look halfway presentable.
When I've done the best I can, I clear my throat, feeling fuzzy-headed and stupid. "Are we gonna talk about—?"
"We should get to the site." Andrew's hands grip the steering wheel at ten and two, like he's taking a driver's test. "Frank's waiting."
"Andr—"
"Erica." He doesn't look at me. "I don't know what to say right now. I don't—" He stops, jaw working side to side. "I need to think."
"Okay." I swallow hard. "But we can't just pretend it didn't happen."
"I'm not suggesting we pretend anything," he replies hoarsely. "I'm suggesting we table this conversation until after we've dealt with the two-hundred-thousand-dollar HVAC disaster that's currently threatening to derail the entire project on which both of our lives depend."
